


If I Loved You Less

by RedheadAmongWolves



Category: Emma (2020), Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, But you don't need to have read/seen Emma to understand tbh, Charles Lee Being a Dick, Emma AU, Flirting, Fluff, George Washington is a Dad, Hamilton is Emma Woodhouse, Jefferson is George Knightley, M/M, trust me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves
Summary: Alexander’s eyebrows fly up his forehead, because he’s an idiot, but he’s not an oblivious idiot. Is— is George Washington, President of the United States of America, trying to set him up? On a date?A Not-Quite Emma AU
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 148





	If I Loved You Less

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Emma (2020) and got a little (read: a lot) emotional re: emma and knightley’s relationship and then got even MORE emotional thinking what if it was hamilton and jefferson, always arguing and bickering while falling absolutely totally in love with each other but thinking the other was in love with someone else and the line “if I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more” never fails to UTTERLY DESTROY ME AND ANYWAY T H I S HAPPENED 
> 
> FUCK

Listen. Alexander _knows_ he’s a disaster. A walking tornado— well, hurricane is probably more apt, even if a little more insensitive. But that’s what Alexander is. He’s smart, and good at what he does, but he’s also insensitive, he’s brash, he’s sass and sarcasm and wit and he doesn’t think before he speaks— he speaks _as_ he thinks, because he trusts his thoughts to never fail him. The only thing he can’t trust is whether they’ll let someone _else_ down. People don’t like being reminded that they’re not the smartest person in the room. Especially when the smartest person in the room is also the biggest dumbass.

He’s learned his lesson in humility a few times over, berated by disappointed looks from Eliza and deadly glares from Angelica, and don’t get him started on Washington’s eyebrows of shame. Alexander’s more than half convinced that man didn’t need guns or ships to win the war: King George would’ve dropped dead from one glance had he and Washington ever found themselves in the same room. It was the expanse of the ocean that saved the monarchy from complete annihilation, Alexander will swear to his grave. 

And yet, despite knowing what Washington’s eyebrows will do when he hears what Alexander’s been up to— hell, when he witnesses it— _Alexander can’t stop arguing with Jefferson._

There’s just something _about_ the guy. It doesn’t matter that they’re on the same Cabinet— which is as good as family, in Washington’s eyes, and in Alexander’s too, if he’s being honest, because this administration is the closest thing he has to something he can call his home— even still, he and Jefferson are at each other’s throats any time they even _breathe_ near the other. There are snide remarks as they pass each other in the halls; insults hurled across the Cabinet table during meetings; they’re even currently engaged in a sticky-note war, finding the most inopportune and creative places to remind the other they’re a dick. Once, at lunch, Alexander found a note _in his sandwich,_ mocking him for his choice of pastrami. _Pastrami?,_ the mustard-smeared note read, once Alexander had discovered it by nearly swallowing it, _Are you_ trying _to be a walking New Yorker cliché?_

Alexander blames their mutual loathing on their policy disagreements. And the fact that Jefferson is an arrogant, vain, unfortunately intelligent prick. Alexander does this to ignore the fact that he’d nearly bitten his cheek through fighting his grin when he’d found the pastrami note. He does this to pretend away that electric shock of delight that zings through his spine down to his toes when his more creative eviscerations earn a wicked begrudging smile across Jefferson’s stupidly attractive mouth. He does this because he’d rather throw himself into oncoming traffic than admit that purple really does look good on Jefferson. _Really_ good.

Despite all his efforts, however, Alex finds himself completely blindsided by the events that follow when Charles Lee rolls into town. 

Or rather, Charles Lee’s name. The man himself doesn’t show for a good month, but there’s gossip enough to sustain the office until he does. He’s supposedly some hotshot up-and-coming wunderkind politician, originally from the UK but with dual citizenship, whom Washington is considering tapping for Defense Sec after the untimely retirement of their previous one— _if_ he meshes well with the current team. He was supposed to arrive weeks ago, but had been continually detained, or so his assistant said. Alexander hadn’t really listened to the excuses the woman had recited to Washington.

Alexander does, however, get a peculiar, uneasy feeling in his gut when Washington calls him into the Oval Office— and not just because at first he was certain he was about to get a chewing-out regarding his and Jefferson’s latest Cabinet spat. Rather, Washington has summoned him to discuss with him Lee’s impending potential appointment. 

But there’s a weight to Washington’s words that Alexander can’t identify, and he’s usually pretty good at knowing Washington better than he knows himself. He’d prided himself on that fact during the war; surely his skills haven’t waned too much even from his new place as Treasury Secretary. 

“I have a feeling the two of you will get on rather well,” Washington tells him. The president is doing his faux-casual charade that he thinks is actually convincing: carefully straightening the papers on his desk while not meeting Alexander’s stare, his voice so light it’s almost sing-songy. 

Alexander narrows his eyes. “You said the same thing about me and Jefferson, sir,” he points out.

Washington coughs. “Yes, well.” He doesn’t justify himself to Alexander, because Alexander is Alexander and Washington is the president and he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to. “I want you to be the one to show Lee around when he gets here. Introduce him to the staff, show him how things run, maybe even take him to a dinner or two so he can see the city. And there’s Winter’s Ball coming up, as you know. You usually attend alone, don’t you? Or with the Schuyler sisters?”

Alexander’s eyebrows fly up his forehead, because he’s an idiot, but he’s not an oblivious idiot. Is— is George Washington, President of the United States of America, trying to _set him up?_ On a _date?_

He honestly doesn’t know whether to be mortified or flattered. He also ignores the fleeting, skittish question of whether Jefferson had been intended as such, too, before Alexander had gone and blown that up with his inability to control himself around someone as brilliant as they were attractive. _And evil,_ Alexander hurries to remind himself. _Very very evil._

Washington would not take kindly to Alexander accusing him of anything not strictly professional, however, so he settles on inclining his head. “I can do that,” he agrees. Washington nods like he couldn’t care less, but the small, satisfied curl at his mouth betrays him, so Alexander can’t help but poke. “And I’m assuming this is so I can report to you with any information of note that I uncover along the way?”

The president doesn’t blush, because he’s the president, but he does take a moment to straighten an already perfectly straight pile of documents. “Yes. Precisely. Now,” the man clears his throat, “I’ll leave you to arrange your schedule. In the meantime, could you send Thomas in here, once you’re back to the office?”

Alexander leaves with a nod and a sigh, already bracing for Jefferson’s _errand boy_ remark, or _is daddy calling us in for supper?_ but instead, he runs into Jefferson almost as soon as the Oval’s door swings shut behind him.

“The fuck?” Alexander startles. Jefferson, at least, looks equally surprised, though he quickly masks it with his usual sneer. 

“Hamilton. What an unpleasant coincidence.” 

“Jefferson. Washington was just asking for you.” 

The Oval is soundproofed, for obvious reasons, but Jefferson still seems to bite back his usual taunt, maybe mindful of who is sitting on the other side of the door. “Another unpleasant coincidence. I have this to deliver, from your precious Lee.” Jefferson lifts his hand between them, and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked between his index and middle finger. He doesn’t hold it above his head and out of Alexander’s reach like he usually does when he’s got his hands on something Alexander wants, which means he intends for Alexander to take it, and that the contents will be enough of a blow. 

Alexander grabs it quickly so that it hopefully gives Jefferson a papercut. It’s a print-out of an email from Lee’s assistant, again, though Alexander doesn’t know how Jefferson came to have it. He’s distracted from that thought by the contents: Lee has been detained another week, it seems. 

There’s no reasonable explanation for the sinking feeling in Alexander’s chest, but it’s there anyway, so he drifts over to the nearest window, like maybe the light will help him see something he’s missed, even though the sun is fading orange and purple this late in the evening. Maybe it’s the new little seedling of hope Washington had inadvertently planted in Alexander’s heart that’s to blame. He doesn’t even know this Lee guy, but, well. If someone tells you they think they’ve found your match— you kind of want to meet the guy, sooner rather than later.

He hears Jefferson follow, and feels the warmth of body heat as the man steps a little too close to read the memo over Alexander’s shoulder, despite that he’s probably already read it, considering he’s its messenger. 

“Funny, we’ve seen more of Lee’s PA than the man himself,” Jefferson hums, his voice dripping with snide insinuation.

Sometimes Alexander thinks if Jefferson said the sky was blue, Alexander would argue it was green just for the sake of disagreeing. In this case, at least, he can claim his indignation is justified. “If Lee says he’s been detained, then he’s been detained. No one would keep the President of the United States waiting for no good reason,” Alexander snips back.

“Unless Lee knows how keen the President is to meet him, and he’s trying to stretch that to his advantage.” Jefferson’s breath smells like peppermint, and something else, something vaguely sweet, like gingerbread. Alexander tries to make his inhale subtle. How does a person smell like Christmas? “Everyone wants to feel powerful— but there’s a difference between flexing your claws and sharpening your claws.”

“Your metaphors are shit, Mufasa,” Alexander retorts. He folds the paper up and hands it back. “And you’ll realize how shit they are when Lee gets here and is every inch the honorable man we’re expecting. Now if you’ll excuse me, _you’re_ the only one I see around here making the president wait.”

Alexander marches away, but he can feel Jefferson’s eyes on his back as he goes, and that strange seed in his chest shifts beneath its soil. 

Maybe shitty metaphors are contagious.

Lee ends up sending two more memos before he finally shows up, completely out of the blue, six whole weeks after his original scheduled arrival. Everyone is eager to finally see the guy, having made himself a myth— everyone except the interim Defense Sec, that is, who had just mustered up the courage to move a plant into her temporary office. 

Alexander is also very eager, so he does that Ed Rooney-half-run down the hallways, though it goes awry when Laf rounds a corner and spots him and starts cackling, the noise following Alexander all the way into the Oval. Washington’s there, of course, but so is Jefferson, who is glowering at their visitor, whose back is currently to Alexander.

“Ah, Alexander, my boy, there you are,” Washington says, and Alexander really should schedule time to give him some pointers on a poker face if the guy is gonna be this obvious whenever he thinks he’s holding all the cards. But then Lee turns around and, well, Alexander hopes _his_ poker face is holding up. 

He’s not the most breathtaking guy Alexander’s ever seen— he resolutely does not look at Jefferson as this thought occurs to him— but he’s handsome, and there’s a gleam in his eye that conveys a self-assurance that Alexander has always considered a turn-on— again, he does _not_ look at Jefferson. He also has a great smile, his teeth sparkling-white and straight and betraying his UK ancestry, and he turns this smile on Alexander now. 

“Mr. Lee, this is our Treasury Secretary, Alexander Hamilton,” Washington introduces. Lee extends a hand for Alexander to shake. His fingers are absurdly soft, like he’s never done a day’s work of manual labor in his entire life, and they lightly squeeze Alexander’s own as Washington continues, “Hamilton will be showing you around this upcoming week.”

“I look forward to it,” Lee all but winks, his British accent oozing smarm, and Alexander smiles back, because that’s the polite thing to do. But inside, that little seedling isn’t as restless as it had been the other day. The entire interaction is disappointingly anticlimactic, like he’s been climbing up a mountain for weeks only to get to the lookout and find there’s a particularly uninteresting suburb on the other side. 

But still, if Washington thinks there might be something to be borne there, Alexander’s willing to give it a try. Alexander is nothing if not determined.

There’s a small huff to the side, and Alexander flicks his eyes to Jefferson’s, clenching his jaw when that little seed chooses _that_ moment to rear its traitorous little sapling head. Jefferson is watching Alexander with something unreadable in his expression, but there’s a dark, not quite happy twitch around his mouth, and he averts his gaze when Alexander glares, which— when has Jefferson ever turned away from a challenge? 

Suddenly, Alexander doesn’t want Jefferson to know he thinks Lee is a little lackluster; like when your mom (or foster mom) chides you to bring a coat because it’s going to get cold but you tell her no then end up freezing your ass off, he doesn’t want to give Jefferson the satisfaction. So Alexander ups the wattage of his smile a few notches. 

“Likewise,” he says, and pretends not to see Washington’s chest puff, or Jefferson narrow his eyes. Lee, oblivious, grins. 

The week leading up to Winter’s Ball is… strange. 

Or, rather: Charles Lee is strange. Alexander learns fast that the man is, to put it nicely, high maintenance: Lee has his hotel staff move his room three times before he’s “satisfied with the view,” and apparently the guy’s room service bill could carpet a hallway. 

Alexander knows this because Lee’s PA has taken to airing her grievances with the White House interns, and Alexander has spent his tenure in politics carefully establishing a private infantry of the interns who come through their halls: they pass along the little tidbits they gather as they deliver coffee, and in turn he gives them glowing letters of recommendation. What can he say? He likes to be informed, even on just gossip. 

He learns Lee has also insisted on a private viewing of the Smithsonian during peak-tourist hours, bought something from every tourist cart outside the Reflecting Pool because he thought it was “cute,” _and_ flew his personal hairstylist all the way in from _London_ for a haircut. 

Alexander tries to tell himself it’s just pompous rich guy stuff, but he’s pretty sure Laf would never do anything like that. Hell, he can’t even imagine _Jefferson_ behaving that way. 

Still, even as he discovers all these things about Charles Lee, and that little lump in his heart is telling him to run very far away, very fast— what’s that saying about watching how a guy treats the wait staff?— he’s trying to keep an open mind. Because (once Alexander finally leaves work in the unfortunately early evening, under influence of Washington’s dagger glare) Alexander has also been serving as Lee’s own tour guide of D.C.’s nightlife, and the guy isn’t half-bad to be around. 

Lee is smart, and funny; he has a million stories from his childhood in the UK and his travels around the world, most of them pretty damn raunchy enough to send Alexander snorting into his whiskey. Lee likes knowing how things run around D.C., too, and asks lots of questions about Alexander’s work, and the work of his friends, Alexander shares what he can— after all, Lee will be part of their Cabinet, soon enough. It’s nothing he won’t be privy to a week from now, right?

Sure, sometimes Lee’s eyes go a little fuzzy when Alexander gets into one of his impassioned rants, and Alexander can’t help but think of how Jefferson would’ve matched him wit for wit, but he’s not entirely unpleasant. 

They don’t hook up the whole week, though, even though once or twice Alexander suggests a nightcap back at his place, but Lee comes up with some excuse not to every time. And Alexander, well. He’s not really upset by it. _“Not entirely unpleasant”_ isn’t a promising foreteller of great sex. 

Lee does happily accept Alexander’s invitation to Winter’s Ball, though, and the next morning Alexander skips into work with that giddiness that comes just from knowing you’re _liked,_ regardless of the liker. 

It sours immediately, however, when he collides with Jefferson as they enter the day’s Cabinet meeting at the same time. 

He and Jefferson haven’t seen much of each other the past few days, with Alexander not staying at work as late as he usually does, and it’s been unusually quiet, and noticeably so not just to Alexander: he’s been getting nervous looks from his interns like he’s some kind of ticking time bomb, and Laf and John have even offered to be his verbal sparring partner or arrange for Jefferson and Alexander to meet in a field at dawn (though that’s more from Laf, and Alexander doesn’t think it’s for the sake of a duel, judging by the wag of Laf’s eyebrows— Alexander is starting to suspect his French friend is taking eyebrow lessons from Washington). There’s even been an unexpected ceasefire in their post-it note war. Or a one-sided ceasefire. Alexander stuck one to the inside of Jefferson’s coffee’s lid the other day, right over the little opening so he’d _have_ to see it, but he hasn’t received a reply. 

But in person, at least, it seems Jefferson’s not going to acknowledge their sudden radio silence.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” Jefferson drawls, and Alexander blinks, because that’s usually a Hallmark movie pick-up line, isn’t it? But the world rights itself as Jefferson continues, “I could give you my optometrist’s number, if you’d like to be able to _watch where you’re going.”_

“I’m not the legally blind one around here, Poindexter. You can hide those glasses as much as you like, you’re not fooling anyone.” Alexander huffs, shouldering past him into the room so Jefferson can’t read on his face how much Alexander actually really likes when Jefferson wears those glasses, which he’s only seen a sad but cherished handful of times. 

The room is still empty, their coworkers milling about getting coffee and donuts down the hall, so Alexander grabs his favorite seat to the right of Washington’s chair. He knows Jefferson will naturally take the chair across from him. 

Jefferson trails in lazily after him. “What’s got your head in the clouds? Our exotic Mr. Lee?” 

“He’s from England, he’s about as exotic as a crumpet,” Alexander retorts, then winces when he realizes it’s more a diss to Lee than Jefferson. “And yet he’s still more _flavorful_ than you,” he tacks on lamely, hoping the innuendo will cover his misstep. 

There’s a second’s too-long pause as Alexander sets down his papers before Jefferson answers, that has Alexander glancing up in suspicion to find the man glowering not at him but down at the polished tabletop. He watches Jefferson tap a long finger to the surface. 

“I’d trust a crumpet more than I trust Charles Lee,” Jefferson finally says. 

Alexander gives up with an exaggerated groan, tossing the last of his files to the table with a satisfying _thwack._ “Why are you so determined to hate the guy?” 

“Why are you so determined to like him?”

“Because Washington _wants us to.”_ Wants _me_ to, Alexander thinks, and that has to be a good enough reason, right? “He’s more than likely going to be our Secretary of Defense, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And wouldn’t that be just wonderful for you, not to have to go gallivanting after Lee through all of Georgetown, but have him right here in the comfort of our own home. Haven’t you ever heard the expression _don’t shit where you eat,_ Hamilton?”

Alexander’s brain is a little caught up on the _our home_ bit, so he just gapes at Jefferson like a speechless fish, until Jefferson’s cheeks start to color with the slightest dusting of a blush as he too realizes what he’s said. The silence hangs heavy between them, neither of them able to break it. 

Luckily they’re spared when an intern swoops in to bring Jefferson his Starbucks order, and the tension breaks to a million pieces that Alexander is all too happy to sweep under the metaphorical rug. The rest of the Cabinet members filter in, and if Alexander has to concentrate on not staring at Jefferson’s hands the entire meeting, well that’s his business and no one else’s. 

Unfortunately, the work day leading up to Winter’s Ball is a little bit of a shitshow. 

Samuel Seabury, a little rotten weasel of a man who, despite being an American citizen, sold his soul to King George during the war in exchange for a lifetime supply of tea or whatever, has apparently gotten his hands on some insider information regarding a bill that’s about the hit the floor, and so it’s up to Alexander to figure out where the leak in Washington’s ship is. 

Fixing this problem is of course self-delegated to Alexander, considering the only reason he knows about this is because his spider’s web of interns have _their_ fingers in a lot of different pies, and not all of those fingers are above table, strictly speaking. Hey, if it makes him a hypocrite, then it makes him a hypocrite. Politics can be dull as hell one day, then mad exciting the next, and Alexander likes to be ready. So sue him. (Please don’t sue him.)

Luckily Alexander is good at leaving no stone unturned. He goes for the old _Mission: Impossible_ (or is it _Jack Ryan?_ ) strategy of feeding false information down different tubes, and then it’s the waiting game to hear which moldy morsel rears its ugly head again. By the time he’s cast out his interns (it’s _not_ misappropriating employee resources, they work for the administration, don’t they?) he has to text Lee that he’ll just meet him at the Ball, then rushes home and changes into his suit. 

So Alexander’s a little frazzled by the time his ride drops him off at the Ball’s venue, but at least he has a valid excuse for being late, which is rare. Usually he’s late because he got too caught up in a rerun of The West Wing, but he can’t exactly tell Washington that, but he also knows his typical “traffic” defense is growing as paper-thin as Washington’s patience. 

The entry hall’s welcoming procession has ended, but Alexander still searches out Washington and Martha in the mingling crowd to say hello. He really admires Martha, and not just because she always smells like apple pie or named her cat after him. She kisses him on the cheek when he finds him, using the proximity to murmur in his ear. 

“You’ve been asked after,” she tells him. Alexander assumes she means Lee, though why she’s saying this so Washington can’t hear escapes him. 

“I’m here now, so we can call off the search party,” Alexander answers, with a smile as she pulls away. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“We’d be more concerned if you were early,” Martha tells him, making Washington laugh. Alexander shoots his boss a playful glare, because he can get away with a little insubordination on relaxed evenings like this, but as he does he spots a flash of fuchsia beyond Washington’s elbow— not over his shoulder, because Alexander can’t see that high, shut up. His traitorous brain follows the color, and there’s Jefferson in his signature color through the crowd, with his head bent as he speaks closely with a drop-dead gorgeous woman in white. Sour, unwanted jealousy surges in Alexander’s chest, so he turns back to Martha.

But she’s watching him with an all-too-knowing look in her eye. “Keep a dance or two open, won’t you?” she tells him. “You never know who might surprise you tonight.”

Alexander’s brow scrunches, even more confused, but Martha’s already dismissing him with a wink and she and Washington are turning to greet the Indian ambassador. 

As he goes, he can’t resist glancing through the crowd once more for a glimpse of Jefferson, but there’s no trace of the man. Alexander smushes down the flicker of disappointment, even though he didn’t particularly want to see Jefferson with that woman again, and then he starts looking for Lee. 

He circles the dance floor and finds his friends first, because they’re inevitably the loudest in the room, clustered by the bar— because why would they ever turn down an opportunity to get plastered on federal dime? Laf and Herc and John are already on their third round, judging by the empty glasses, and even Eliza has a bit of a flush to her cheeks. Angelica’s deep in a rant to Laf about something and looks like Church’s arm around her waist is the only thing stopping her from climbing up onto the bar top so everyone can hear her better. 

Alexander feels another small stab of envy knowing that any other year he’d be right there with them, matching John shot for shot and climbing up on the bar top before Angelica’s even out of her stool, but this year he’s been tasked with entertaining Lee, and, well, for some reason Alexander isn’t particularly keen on mixing Lee in with his friends. 

“Alex! _Mon ami,_ you are here at last!” Laf cheers as Alexander approaches, turning from Angelica and pressing a waiting glass into Alexander’s hand. Alexander takes it gratefully; if ever he needed a drink, it’s today. 

“You find the rat?” John asks with a sloshy grin, because of course his friends know about his intern army. 

Alexander throws back the drink and shakes his head through the burn. “Not yet, but I’ve laid a few traps. So mind your toes, gentlemen, ladies.”

“Where’s your shadow?” Herc asks. “Or are you gonna shake him and come hang with us cool kids instead?” 

“I wish,” Alexander says, “But I promised Washington.”

“And our Alex can never break a promise to our _cher_ Washington,” Laf agrees solemnly. 

“Plus Lee’s not that bad,” Alex protests, though it sounds weak even to his own ears. “He just takes some time to get to know.”

“On Wednesday he chucked an apple at John Adams for saying he didn’t like Lee’s shoes,” John says

“He did not.”

“Okay, fine, he didn’t, but you could just _tell_ he wanted to. I thought the thing was gonna explode in his hands if he squeezed it any harder.”

“That’s what she said!” Angelica crows suddenly, and the conversation gives way to laughter. 

“Alright, alright,” Alexander says, once he’s drained the last of his drink and set it on the bar top, “I better go find the guy, make sure there’s no fruit within throwing distance— or no Adams in hitting distance. Text me if you guys head out early, yeah?” 

Herc pats him on the shoulder, and then Alexander’s off again— but he doesn’t get very far before he spots the back of Lee’s head, at the other end of the bar. The room is loud enough that he’s not worried about Lee having overheard them, but as Alexander nears, Lee’s own collection of glasses show he’s on his third or fourth round, too.

“Lee?” he says, and the man spins around and grins widely. His eyes are glassy and his hair is flopping onto his sweaty forehead, unkempt in a way Alexander’s never seen the man and making Alexander wonder if he pregamed. 

“Hamilton!” the man greets, spreading his arms wide and nearly decking a shorter man passing beside them. “Oops. I was wondering when your sorry ass would get here.”

Alexander’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh?” He and Lee have gone for drinks a few times now, but he’s never seen the man smashed, and he’s gotta say, he’s not liking the view. “I see you got started without me.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport!” Lee exclaims. It looks like he’s about to say something else, before he probably remembers he’s not officially hired, yet, and Alexander really does have a not insignificant amount of sway when it comes to Washington. “Plenty of time for you to catch up,” he says instead, after a pause.

The political scene is nothing but a rumor mill, and Alexander feels the weight of the crowd’s eyes on him and Lee like a pile of bricks. 

He goes for damage control, then, and leans his elbows behind him on the bar as he faces the crowd. “Maybe later,” he says. They watch the guests swirling on the dance floor for a moment, before Alexander asks, “So? What are your thoughts on your first D.C. ball?” 

“To be completely honest, I’ve been really hoping you’re all joking. I’ve seen pigs dance better than this.” Lee observes. His words stick to each other like glue.

Alexander bristles on America’s behalf. “To be fair, we were _fighting_ _a war,_ while you were all dancing; there wasn’t much time for practicing our quadrilles.” He smirks. “Also, it’s not very nice to call King George a pig.” 

There’s a low chuckle, then, but it’s not from Lee; instead, the sound comes from somewhere behind the man, and Alexander darts a glance over his shoulder but doesn’t see anyone. He turns back to Lee, only to find the man frowning at the orchestra. 

Lee grabs a glass from the counter. “Are they— are they playing Gardel? How cliche!” 

“Gardel is one of my favorites,” Alexander snaps. It’s not— he has no idea what a Gardel is, and he’s never heard this song before, or maybe he has but he’s never been able to identify it from the ten thousand other violin-y songs that sound exactly like it, but Alexander’s patience is a little thin, at the moment, and maybe he’s raring for a Jefferson-esque bickering. Or maybe he’s just raring for Jefferson, honestly. 

He catches sight of Washington, then, who is peering back at Alexander over a gathering of heads with one eyebrow raised, and Alexander sighs. He holds out a hand to Lee. “Would you like to dance? Maybe I can change your mind about—” _what was it?_ “Gorbel.”

“Gardel,” Lee corrects him, even through his surely liquor-hazy brain. But he takes Alexander’s hand nevertheless. 

They dance their way for a few songs. Lee is surprisingly nimble on his feet despite how his breath smells like a brewery, though Alexander is helpless as always, despite the lessons all three of the Schuyler sisters have attempted to give him through the years. But they don’t talk, and at the end of the third song Lee is starting to look a little green around the edges, so Alexander leads the way back to the sidelines, just hoping that was enough of a show to appease Washington. 

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, before Lee says, “How about I get us some drinks?” 

Alexander can’t nod quick enough, even though he is perfectly aware Lee probably has no intention of coming back. 

“Great idea. I’ll be here.”

Lee gives him a tight smile and staggers off towards the bar, and Alexander doesn’t wait a second before he’s spinning on his heel and marching out of the ballroom. He doesn’t really know where he’s going— the ball changes venues every year, depending on which politician is frequenting which hotel with his mistresses, and which ones won’t let a politician within ten feet of the front door after said mistress trashes said hotel— but eventually he finds himself in a quiet antechamber, still decorated in the hotel’s gaudy gold-trimmed wallpaper and plush red carpet but probably mostly used by the maids on their way to the service elevators out of view of snooty guests. Alexander glimpses a staircase that probably leads up to the ballroom’s storage before turning back to squint at the party. 

He can still see it, with his head poked around the corner, but the party would have a hard time seeing him. Alexander just… he needs a second. He gets the contrariness— he thrives in chaos, so why would he be hiding in a back room like Jo March in her burnt dress at Sally Gardiner’s party— but he’s allowed to contain multitudes, so shut up. 

Alexander has had bad dates before, and he’s been stood up before, and he’s _definitely_ had dates storm out on him before when he says the wrong thing at dinner or a bar, but the sting of tonight’s disaster is a little harsher than he’s familiar with. Maybe it’s because he’s just disappointed Lee wasn’t his happy ever after, like Washington had hoped for him, or maybe it’s because this whole week— hell, every week since his scrawny ass got picked for Treasury Secretary— Alexander has been wishing it was someone else by his side, adventuring through the city and trying all the fancy new restaurants and making fun of the Christmas window displays, or maybe just spending an evening with him on the couch, watching _Designated Survivor_ and arguing which one of them Washington would choose as his successor or if they would both rather go up in flames than walk into the office without the other, and—

“Sorry, this stairwell’s taken,” a voice says, and Alexander whirls around. 

Jefferson is lounging across the bottom few steps of the staircase, one leg crossed over the knee of the other, inspecting his fingernails. Alexander’s stunned, and a little mortified, because hiding from a crowd definitely counts as an exposed underbelly and he’s resolved never to give Jefferson something to sink his teeth into. 

But then, he thinks, Jefferson is here, too, instead of out there with Madison or the woman in the white dress. _Why?_

But maybe most jarring of all is that Jefferson has shed his purple suit coat and has deposited it in a wrinkled heap beside him. Alexander has never seen Jefferson treat his clothes with anything less than meticulous, near obsessive care. Come to think of it, even in the heat of their most ferocious arguments, Jefferson has never looked anything but composed, suits pressed and shoes shiny and not a curl out of place, but this Jefferson… this Jefferson is _rumpled._ But what, Alexander wonders, is big enough to make the great unflappable Thomas Jefferson lose his cool? 

“What are you doing here?” Alexander blurts, because he’s having a hard time gathering his thoughts enough to come up with something snarky. _And where’s the woman in the white dress?_

“Where’s Lee?” Jefferson asks in reply, picking at imaginary dirt under his nails, and he— he’s almost as bad at faking nonchalance as Washington, which makes Alexander blink. 

“He, uh—” Alexander glances over his shoulder again at the party, but he lets his eyes unfocus so it’s just a blur of colors. He really doesn’t care where Lee’s disappeared to. And he’s also finding he kind of wants to say so to Jefferson. If only so the man will stop acting so weird, Alexander reasons hurriedly, because Jefferson’s been acting downright _strange_ — _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ levels of strange— since Lee’s arrival, and it’s making Alexander’s skin crawl. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ this Jefferson— he’s just as annoyingly attractive as arrogant Jefferson, and, Alexander admits, there’s something almost _endearing_ about a ruffled Jefferson— he just. He just wants to _understand._ Alexander really, really hates not understanding. 

Especially because it feels like the answer is right under his nose, he just _can’t see it._

“To be honest, I have no idea. He went to get us drinks but I’m pretty sure he’s ditching me like I’m a girl at prom he didn’t actually want to go with. You haven’t seen any buckets of chicken blood on top of any door frames, have you?” Alexander tries. 

“It was pig’s blood, I believe,” Jefferson says, but he’s peering up at Alexander now, which is better than studiously avoiding his gaze. “Did he,” he clears his throat, “did he really ditch you?”

“Yeah, well,” Alexander shifts on his feet. _I’m ditching him back. Plus suddenly the stairwells here got a lot more interesting,_ he wants to say, but of course he doesn’t. “You didn’t answer my question, by the way.”

“If I’ve seen any blood buckets? No, I think your hair is safe to beg you to end its life another day.”

“ _No,”_ Alexander snorts, “And shut up, you’re one to talk, Bob Ross. No, my question of why you’re out here, instead of in there, schmoozing.”

“Schmoozing?” Jefferson straightens out his legs on the descending stairs and leans back on his elbows, suddenly looking like a _Vogue_ editorial and even taller than he does standing up, which what the fuck. _So_ unfair.

“Schmoozing. You schmooze, I schmooze, he she me schmooze.” 

“And to think Washington let you write his letters for four years,” Jefferson retorts, but he heaves a resigned sigh, so Alexander bites his tongue against a quip. “I— I don’t particularly like parties.” He’s back to avoiding Alexander’s eyes. “Too many people.” 

There’s something he’s not saying, but Alexander’s too surprised to chase that thought. “Really?”

“Have you ever seen me at a party, Hamilton? A bar?” Jefferson asks drily, and, come to think of it, Alexander hasn’t. Even though he’s sure he’s seen Madison at most events and even a few after-work happy hours, and Laf of course would have invited Jefferson to his monthly dinner parties.

“I guess I always figured you went someplace fancier, or that you didn’t want to hang out with us you considered your lessers.” Alexander takes a step closer. 

“I don’t—” he cuts off. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “Perhaps I— didn’t think I would be welcome.”

“You would be,” Alexander says immediately, and his teeth clack audibly as his jaw snaps shut, but it’s too late, Jefferson’s already jerking his head up to stare at him, and, well, Alexander’s not a very good back-pedaler, so, fuck it— in for a penny, in for a pound. There’s a fragile peace in this stairwell, and he doesn’t really want to be the guy to take a sledge hammer to it. “I mean, we’re— this administration is kind of a family, isn’t it? You’re always welcome. And I know Laf would be over the moon if you ever came for dinner, he always has a table setting for you—” that’s always set right next to Alexander’s, he realizes with a lightning bolt zing. The scheming French _bastard._

“Even though we can’t _look_ at each other without arguing?”

Alexander tugs at the hem of his suit, suddenly the one who has to look away. “I mean, we’re— we’re doing pretty okay right now, aren’t we?” 

There’s a long pause, until Jefferson says, softly, “I guess we are.” 

There’s a shifting, a rustle of clothing, and when Alexander looks up again Jefferson has readjusted on the step, sliding his jacket over so that there’s space enough for another person to sit beside him. He gestures to it in silent invitation, and Alexander can see his hands are a little shaky. But it’s okay, because so are Alexander’s.

So Alexander sits down.

They end up never rejoining the party. Alexander doesn’t know how long they sit there talking: actually talking, not fighting or yelling over one another, though of course they sometimes stumble across a topic they disagree with each other on, but they both seem to have silently resolved that tonight isn’t a night for arguing, and they steer the conversation back into gentler waters— resolutely avoiding the topics of Lee and the mysterious woman, as well. But eventually Alexander realizes he doesn’t hear the orchestra anymore, and when he pushes himself off the steps his knees creak audibly. 

“Did we miss the apocalypse?” he asks as he pokes his head around the alcove entry again. Sure enough, the party seems to have concluded: the ballroom is near empty, with only a few straggling guests left amongst the hotel staff folding up chairs and tables. Alexander’s friends have vanished.

He feels Thomas come up behind him and peer over his shoulder. Neither of them make a move to leave the little room, because that means leaving whatever this was behind in here, too. As much as Alexander would love for this to follow them, he knows that isn’t really possible. _Right?_

He sighs, thunking his head lightly on the doorframe. “I guess we should—”

But Thomas speaks at the same time. “Washington will be wondering—”

They both stop, and smile at each other, if a little shyly. Alexander continues first. “We should probably go help fight the zombies.” 

“Wouldn’t be fair to leave them on their own,” Thomas agrees. 

And Alexander doesn’t really know how to end this, so he finally just nods firmly and moves to walk away, but then a broad hand curls around his bicep, and Thomas says, “Alex.” 

If the hand burning a brand into Alexander’s arm hadn’t been enough to stop him in his tracks, Thomas Jefferson saying his first name certainly is. 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever like Charles Lee,” Thomas starts, and Alexander opens his mouth to reply but Thomas holds up his other hand to stop him, so Alexander lets him continue. “But if you like him, then—” he swallows, “Then I shall make an effort to be civil.”

 _I don’t like him,_ Alexander yells in his head, _I like_ you, _fuck, I’m in love with_ you, _you idiot._ He opens his mouth again to— to say _something,_ he doesn’t know what, but just as he does, there’s a loud slam from somewhere in the ballroom as a custodian accidentally knocks over a stack of chairs. Alexander near leaps out of his skin, but only succeeds in leaping out of Thomas’ grasp, and he stumbles backwards, even though every cell in his body is aching to lean forward and forward until he’s falling into Thomas with no hope of ever pulling back, but—

But he can’t do this, because— because the woman in white, because Washington, because John and Laf and Herc and Eliza and Angelica and because Alexander is _scared,_ so all he does is nod, barely, before he strides off across the ocean of the ballroom, feeling Thomas’ eyes on his back the whole way. 

Stepping out onto the sidewalk out front of the hotel is like jumping into an ice cold pool. The temperature shocks him back to himself, and he finds the world has been painted in a lavender haze, with dawn breaking over the surrounding cityscape. He sucks in a deep breath that fails to steady him.

He fumbles for his phone in his suit pocket and finds he has a thousand missed texts from his friends, and even a couple from Washington, but, he notes as he scrolls, not a single one from Lee. And, funny enough, Alexander doesn’t feel disappointed in the slightest. He scrolls over to his contacts: he has Thomas’ number in there, because early on in their acquaintance they’d had to begrudgingly ride together to the airport at Washington’s unflinching insistence, but he’s never used it beyond that. He wonders, if he were to send a text after tonight, if Thomas would reply. If he’d even saved Alexander’s number too. 

“Alex!” he hears suddenly, and Alexander whirls around to find Thomas rushing through the hotel doors, purple jacket askew and eyes bright. His long legs carry him to Alexander in just a few steps, and then suddenly he’s close, so close, close enough that Alexander has to tilt up his chin to meet his eyes, and he’s panting like he’d sprinted the way there, and Alexander’s heart is racing in his chest and his fingertips are buzzing and Thomas opens his mouth and says, “Alex, I—”

“Alex! _Dieu Merci,_ help us!” comes Laf’s unmistakable accent, thick with distress, and both Alexander and Thomas turn to see Laf and Herc staggering out of the bar next door, and dragging a limp John Laurens with his arms slung over their necks between them.

Alexander races over. “What happened?” he exclaims, pushing John’s hair out of his face to get a look at him and revealing a quickly bruising eye to the streetlights in the process. John groans, so at least he’s conscious, but Alexander winces in sympathy: that’s gonna be a hell of a shiner. “Oh, my dear Laurens, who did this to you?”

John’s eyes slant open to peer at Alexander, and a drunken grin tugs at his mouth. “Alex! Where’ve you been, man?” he slurs, and Alexander huffs a laugh. 

“Where have _you_ been?” he asks in reply, suddenly very aware of Thomas behind him, watching.

“We went to this place next door once the hotel bar closed to keep the party going,” Herc answers for him, “but so did… some other guys. John got in an argument with one of them about National Parks,” Alexander chuckles again, because that’s a _very_ John Laurens thing to do, “And then next thing we know, fists are flying.”

“Oh, my dear Laurens,” Alexander says again, affectionately swiping a thumb over John’s cheekbone. “Who did this to you?”

“Tell the bastard that,” John hiccups, his eyes closing again, “that National Parks _are_ an essential service, and therefore deserve federal compensation in times of economic crisis—” He cuts off as he hiccups again, this time with a wince as Alexander assumes his friend throws up in his mouth a little. “ _Fuck,”_ John groans.

“I’ll— I’ll hail you a cab,” Alexander hears from behind him, and he turns to see Thomas looking exceedingly awkward. Noticing him too, Laf beams at his friend. 

“Thomas! You are here too! Lovely!” Alexander resolutely ignores how Laf’s twinkling eyes dart from Thomas to him and back. Thomas does too, moving to the curb to flag down a passing taxi. He succeeds, his purple coat probably catching the cabbie’s eye.

It takes all three of them to bustle John into the back of the cab, but before he climbs in Alexander turns to thank Thomas, already smiling, only to find the man has been joined by the woman in the white dress, who must have been nearby— maybe even waiting for Thomas. Maybe staying at the hotel tonight. Maybe with Thomas. 

She slides her arm through Thomas’, and Alexander’s smile feels instantly, painfully false. 

“Uh,” he says, eloquently. “Thank you, ah, for the cab. I’m sure— I’m sure Laf will let you know if things go sideways,” he manages, and pretends his little heart seed isn’t breaking in half as he sees Thomas’ face shutter. The other man nods. 

“Good,” Thomas replies, after a second. “That’s good. Good— good night, Alexander.”

“Good night,” Alexander says softly. 

And then he gets in the cab and shuts the door behind him.

As the cab pulls away, Alexander again pretends not to see Laf’s knowing grin and instead focuses on rearranging John so that his friend’s head is in Alex’s lap, and so he won’t have a crick in his neck on top of his hangover tomorrow. 

“None of you answered me, by the way,” Alexander says. “Who did this?” 

He does, however, see the look that Herc and Laf exchange over John’s legs. Alexander raises his brows. “Uh—” Laf starts. 

“He called me a _turtle fucker,”_ John groans below. Alexander smooths a hand over his forehead.

“ _Who_ did?” 

“Charles Lee,” Herc blurts, and Alexander goes cold. 

If this night, this _week,_ hadn’t been that pipe dream romance’s slow death, then this is the nail in its coffin. The dagger through its chest. Alexander’s free hand fists against his thigh, tight enough the knuckles blanche, and if this cab weren’t speeding through the city Alexander would demand it turn around so he could go back and sock that motherfucker in his big fat mouth. 

The seed in Alexander’s chest bristles, but it doesn’t wither and die, because, Alexander knows suddenly and fiercely, that seed never belonged to Charles Lee. 

As if reading his murderous thoughts, John speaks up again. “You’re not allowed to kill him,” he says, his eyes squinting up at Alexander, a little blurry in the glow of passing lights. Alexander hopes he doesn’t have a concussion.

“John—”

“Alex,” John continues solemnly, crooking a finger to coax Alexander closer, and so Alexander leans in to hear whatever information of grave importance John is about to impart, and hears— “You’re not allowed to kill him, because _I’m_ gonna kill that wingnut bastard.”

Alexander pats him on the chest. “My dear Laurens, I’ll hold your purse.”

Alexander used to envy Hercules Mulligan, not just because he could make a mean pair of pants, but because Alexander has always wanted to know how exciting it must have been to be a double agent. Alexander knows he’s a terrible actor— though not as bad as Washington— but he still fantasizes in the shower about being some suave James Bond-esque spy, playing his way through poker games and sweet-talking through dinner parties knowing the whole time he’s fooling all of them, that he’s in with the good guys, that he’s on the winning team. 

But over the next few days, that fantasy becomes reality. He, Laf, Herc, and John have agreed that Alexander has to keep pretending to like Lee until they find something _really_ damning, because going to Washington with a story of a bar fight doesn’t especially make _them_ like the victims. But Alexander is confident they won’t have to wait long— anyone who so easily calls someone a _turtle fucker_ is bound to have some other skeletons in their closet. 

And he’s right: it’s only a couple days into the working week that they get their breakthrough, and it comes in the shape of none other than Samuel Seabury. Alexander’s rat traps worked, because word has come back through the grapevine that one of his false tidbits has reached the ears of Seabury, and thus King George, and this particular piece he had given to only two people: an intern who has forgotten Alexander’s coffee order every time Alexander has given it to him, which Alexander first took as a show of disrespect and now he just thinks the guy is so terrified of Alexander he hasn’t heard a single word he’s said to him this whole time, and Charles Lee.

Like he said, Alexander is a master stone-turn-er-over. 

He decides to break the news to Washington alone, even though Laf and John volunteer to come with him. But this situation is sensitive beyond their understanding, and Alexander doesn’t really want an audience to that. So he wanders over to the Oval in the late evening, when he knows the president’s secretary has been sent home and Washington will be alone, wrapping up his other work and readying to go back to the residence. He and Alexander have had many long heart-to-hearts on evenings like these, in all the years they’ve known each other.

Alexander knocks three times, as he always does, and Washington calls, “Come in, son.”

Alexander likes when the Oval is like this: shadows thrown long by the single lamp at Washington’s desk, the garden beyond the window black as ink. It’s all hushed— a room brimming with history and stories and power, and yet it sleeps, too, reminding Alexander all at once that yes, he might sometimes feel like he’s running out of time, or that time is running off without him, but there are still small moments of peace, of sanctity, to be found. The eye in each new hurricane.

Washington looks up from his papers with a smile as Alexander centers himself on the eagle rug. “Hello, Alexander. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Like he’s still a soldier reporting for duty, Alexander lifts his chin and straightens his spine as he says, “I’m afraid I have bad news, sir. We’ve found the mole.”

Washington’s smile falls. “I see.”

As Alexander explains the situation, he watches as Washington’s face only draws more and more grim. For a brief second, Alexander half-wishes Lee were here too, just so Alexander could watch as Washington turns his disappointed eyebrows on the man. Lee would probably quiver to dust before their very eyes.

“And,” Alexander finishes, “He called Laurens a turtle fucker, sir.”

Washington sighs, before standing up from his chair and circling around to lean against his desk instead. He’s taken off his tie, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. He looks tired. “Well. I guess that affirms he won’t be our new Secretary of Defense. Will you draw up a list for me of other potential candidates, for the morning?” Alexander nods, and Washington mirrors him. “Good. Though I am very sorry to hear this, my boy,” he says, scrubbing a hand down his face, and again Alexander watches as Washington turns from serious president to weary father figure. “I had— well, I’m sure you didn’t pick up on it, but frankly I was hoping Lee would turn out to be something of a companion to you. You seemed such an excellent pair.” 

“Perhaps on paper, sir,” Alexander says, not wanting Washington to feel like he’s failed completely. 

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been wrong about matters of the heart,” Washington says with a bitter huff, and that little Thomas-shaped seed in Alexander’s chest aches. _One thing at a time,_ he chastises himself. “We’ll escort Lee from the premises tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Out the back door, as much as I’d like to see him punished publicly— but we have to ensure the people continue to view this office as invulnerable.”

“I think the back door will be plenty undignified, sir,” Alexander says with a small smirk, which thankfully makes Washington smile too, albeit sorrowfully. After tomorrow morning, Alexander knows he and his army of interns will discreetly make sure Lee is never allowed to set foot in a government building for the rest of his life, not even to run for a county seat or work in a DMV, but he doesn’t say this to Washington. What the man doesn’t know his followers do to protect him, won’t hurt him. 

“If that’s all, son, I think I’ll retire for the evening,” Washington says, dismissing him, but then, suddenly, Alexander can’t resist it anymore. It’s just— Alexander hasn’t seen Thomas at all in the days since the ball, seemingly always just a second too late and only glimpsing the man’s coattails disappearing around a corner, or catching the fading glow of the lightbulbs in Thomas’ office, already locked up for the night. He’s not sure if Thomas is avoiding him, if he regrets all they said that evening, if he’s just sparing Alexander the humiliation of a rejection, but honestly, Alexander doesn’t care— he just doesn’t want to keep grasping after shadows. 

“Sir,” he blurts, too loudly in the quiet space, and cringes when Washington raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, sir, but— what you said earlier. About— about matters of the heart? Can I ask, uh, what you meant, sir?” 

Washington’s other eyebrow lifts to join its brother high on the man’s forehead. He stares at Alexander for a long moment, until Alexander has to dig his nails into his palm so he doesn’t squirm. 

And then, Washington’s face smooths, and he smiles again, only this time it’s genuine: that pleased little dauntless smile of his, the one that inspires whole countries to follow him, and makes others tremble at his feet.

“You’re a smart boy, Alexander, and I’ve often marveled at how you seemed to know my mind before I knew it myself,” Washington tells him. “If you’re asking, I think you already know your answer.” 

“But sir,” Alexander presses. “What if— I mean, do you think—” he curses under his breath at how his cheeks are heating. “It’s just—”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words,” Washington observes, incredulous and amused at once, and Alexander’s blush deepens. “My boy,” the man says, crossing his arms, “You know Martha likes to garden, yes?” Confused, Alexander nods. “Sometimes she drags me out there with her. It’s hell on the knees, but I’ve found it can be rather relaxing. And educational.” Alexander has no idea where Washington is going with this, but he’s no stranger to Washington’s metaphors and allegories, so he keeps silent. “I’ve learned that I can plant all the seeds I want, but those seeds will never take root without my doing the work: sowing the soil, watering the bud, warding off the rabbits. But I’ve also learned that sometimes, a seed escapes me. I can forget about it, or think it a lost cause, but then nature does my work for me, and I turn around and suddenly, there’s a flower.”

He smiles, gentler this time, and stands to clap Alexander on the shoulder. “But I didn’t just learn that from gardening, son. If there is anything you have taught me in our time together, Alexander, it is that there is no such thing as a lost cause.” 

Lee getting tossed out on his ass is every bit as satisfying as Alexander had hoped it would be, even if he doesn’t go all _Infinity War_ and dissolve to ash. The only thing that would have made it better were if Thomas had been in attendance to laugh with. Though perhaps no one is more delighted with this turn of events than the interim Defense Sec, because Washington— at Alexander’s recommendation— decides to make her appointment permanent. 

And then, just like that, things are back to normal. Everyone goes back to their work, and it’s like Charles Lee never even existed. 

But Alexander’s world has been turned on its head, because there’s no hiding from his inconvenient crush anymore, because he knows now it’s not just a crush: he’s in love with Thomas Jefferson, who, of course, will never love him back. 

After Lee’s exile, Alexander heads out to the White House lawn, thinking a walk might help to clear his head. He’s always liked the lawn, probably even more than the showy gardens out back, because it’s just flat and green and sprawling and endless, and he can hear the fountain bubbling nearby, and see the early morning tourists beyond that with their cameras and their flag shirts, and he can turn around and look at the building that he fought his whole life to get inside of, a building that represents freedom and possibility and hard work to him and to so many people, and _he did it,_ he did the work and he got there, he made it inside. Alexander has so many things still to do, but he can check this one off his list. 

Except this time, when he turns to look back at the columns, he spots a figure ambling towards him across the green. A very familiar figure. 

Confused, Alexander stops. The figure keeps moving, growing larger as it approaches, until it solidifies into a determined-looking Thomas Jefferson. 

It’s like a mirage of water in a desert, only it’s not disappearing. It’s like Matthew Macfadyen traipsing across a field, only it’s not dawn, and Thomas’ shirt isn’t gaping open to his navel, sadly. 

“You couldn’t meet me halfway?” is the first thing Thomas gripes once he gets into Alexander’s earshot, and Alexander startles from his reverie. “You really made me cross the entire White House lawn?”

“Uh,” Alexander says, clueless as to what Thomas is doing, and bristling a little because it wasn’t _his_ idea for Thomas to decide to come out here. “Sorry?”

But then Thomas also seems to forget why he’s chased Alexander here, because he just stares at Alexander for a long moment, looking bizarrely… nervous? until Alexander can’t hold it in anymore. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

Thomas’ cheeks color. “Ah. Washington told me where to find you.”

He doesn’t offer anything else, so Alexander prompts him. “And… _why_ did you ask Washington where to find me?” 

“I— I heard about Lee. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Alexander blinks. “Why?” 

Thomas blinks back. “Aren’t you— I thought, you and he—” 

Alexander’s brain finally comes back online and he registers what Thomas is getting at, and he laughs, short and sharp, “Me and _Lee?_ Lee punched John in the face and called him a turtle fucker, _and_ he was dealing insider information to _Samuel Seabury_.” He shakes his head, unable to entirely squash his bitter smile. “I mean, maybe I’d thought— at one point, but— no. There was and is and always will be nothing between me and Charles Douchebag Lee. Hell, he probably turned me down because he’s bagging Seabury.” 

Thomas doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information. “That’s… that’s good to hear.”

“Why? I mean—” Alexander clears his throat and tries to will away the beginnings of his own blush. “What do you care, if Lee and I were—” Fuck, every other day of his life Alexander doesn’t seem to have _enough_ words, but here, when it matters most of all, he’s a stammering fool. He tries to raise a white flag and slip back into their usual banter, but his watery smile betrays him as he says, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“I have to tell you something,” Thomas says, before the last, damning word is even out of Alexander’s mouth. 

So here it is, Alexander thinks. There’s a proper hurricane of butterflies in his stomach, and he knows better than anyone that hurricanes never bring good things, that their destruction is always complete and total and he really should just start waltzing back to the White House now if he ever wants to survive this, because he _knows_ what’s coming. Thomas is going to turn him down, tell him there’s no way he’d ever go for a disaster like Alexander, not when there are beautiful women in white and Alexander is… Alexander. 

But fuck, he doesn’t want it to be over. He _loves_ being around Thomas, the way they were in that stairwell, now that he knows it’s possible, almost as much as he loves bickering with Thomas. 

So maybe he can scrape through this with still a few shreds of his dignity intact. Alexander breathes in, deep as he can, like he’s about to dive off a cliff.

“I’ll hear you out,” Alexander says, trying to make himself believe it as he speaks the words. “I— I like to think we’re friends, now, so I’ll hear anything you have to say.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

And ain’t _that_ just a slap in the face? _You know what,_ Alexander thinks, _fuck_ Thomas Jefferson. He is the most arrogant, selfish, dickwad asshole to ever walk the face of the earth and fuck Alexander’s heart for falling for him, fuck the universe for ever putting him in his path, fuck everybody and anybody because Alexander is _done—_

He whips around to start walking away— very controlled walking, he swears, when all he wants to do is start sprinting— when Thomas’ hand wraps around his upper arm and tugs him back around, just as he did the night of Winter’s Ball. Alexander yanks it away but the effort is useless, because Thomas drops his hand just as fast, like Alexander has burned him, and fine, if Thomas wants a fight, then Alexander can fight. He opens his mouth to start ripping Thomas a new hole big enough to climb to hell through, when—

“I want to be more than that.”

Alexander stops. 

Because— what? 

Thomas’ hands flutter anxiously at his sides. “And I get that you probably— you don’t— but just. I have to know. I have to know if I have a chance.”

Alexander couldn’t speak right now if he tried, which is an entirely new sensation. Thomas, thankfully, reads his silence as permission to continue. 

“Alexander Hamilton,” Thomas says seriously, stepping closer, until his eyes are all Alexander can see. They search Alexander’s in turn. “Alex. I’m not— I’m not very good with words. Not the way you are, at least. And you have no reason to accept me, because I’ve— I’ve certainly made your life hell on more than one occasion, and I’m— I’m mean and awkward and I hide from crowds and I put a post-it note in your sandwich, and—” he sucks in a breath, and it feels like he’s stealing it right out of Alexander’s lungs. “But _you_ are— you’re everything I didn’t know I could dream of. You take what I give and you give it right back just as ferociously, like nobody else can, and you’re _brilliant,_ even when you’re an idiot, and your heart is the biggest fucking thing—”

He cuts off. He reaches down and takes Alexander’s hands, and there are callouses on the pads of his fingers, and Alexander never wants to let go.

“I’m in love with you, Alex,” Thomas whispers. “Say you love me too.” 

That seed in Alexander’s chest is threatening to explode, one last butterfly breaking from its cocoon, but that’s confusing the metaphors but he doesn’t care, there’s going to be a whole greenhouse ecosystem sprouting in his chest in the next second—

Wait. 

Alexander tugs his hands away again, and Thomas’ wide-eyed hope collapses.

“Wait, but what about you?” Alexander accuses. 

Thomas startles. “What about me?”

“There was— that woman at Winter’s Ball, the— the one in the white dress! You left with her!”

“Martha?” Thomas blinks. Knowing her name is like _another_ slap in Alexander’s face, and honestly, he’s about to start bruising, or at least get whiplash. But then, “Martha’s just a friend, Alex, she’s like my _sister,_ I’d never—” he huffs. “I asked her to join me because I didn’t want to stare at you and Lee all damn night, but even that wasn’t enough and I had to go hide in that stupid stairwell until you stumbled in, too.” 

“Oh,” Alexander says. And then they’re back to staring at each other again, but there’s a slow, creeping smile spreading across Thomas’ mouth, the smug bastard, and he shortens the distance between them again, and Alexander’s face is hurting, for some reason. It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s grinning back, so wide he’s sure the Russian spy satellites can see it from space. 

“So,” Thomas says slowly, and one of his hands lifts to let his thumb rest ever so lightly over Alexander’s cheekbone, but even still the barest contact is like a wildfire igniting along his nerve endings. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say _you_ were jea— _mmph!”_

He doesn’t get to finish the word, because Alexander gets his hands in the man’s shirtfront and yanks him into a kiss. 

+

“I can’t live in Monticello. I can’t be that far away from D.C. What if Washington needs me in the middle of the night?”

“Dollface, I’m pretty sure _you’re_ the one who bugs Washington in the middle of the night, not the other way around.”

“I have important ideas! Urgent ideas! Plus the president should be kept on his toes, you never know when the enemy might strike!”

“Fine, then how about summers? Three months. Virginia is gorgeous in August.”

“A week.”

“Two months and holidays.”

“Two weeks.”

“Alexander.”

“Fine, two months and holidays. But you’re moving our bed out of the hallway.”

“It’s a perfect fit.”

“It’s perfectly ridiculous.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“Yeah. I am.” 

(“You’re supposed to say it back.”

“It back.”

“Alex—”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I love you too.”)

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to personally apologize to Jane Austen, but also this is my favorite thing I’ve ever written.
> 
> like!!! so many things!!! lee as churchill, seabury as a pseudo jane fairfax, john and herc and laf all kinda riding some harriet/weston vibes though washington & martha are my absolute mr & mrs weston lmao, though wash gets some mr woodhouse vibes too cause he’s so ham’s dad. can you imagine him watching alex and thomas on the lawn from the windows like “my fucking idiot children.” 
> 
> ALSO knightley plays the violin, thomas plays the violin, knightley has tantrums in donwell, thomas probably also had tantrums in monticello like lmao honestly this shit writes itself and i am all too happy to be a conduit,,,, 
> 
> thank you for reading!!! comments & kudos always much cherished!!
> 
> (don’t own/profit from hamilton/austen/emma, disclaimers disclaimers disclaimers)


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